


Walking Dreams

by Adrenalineshots



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Christmas Story, Fête des Mousquetaires Challenge, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt d'Artagnan, Sleep Walking, sort of nakedness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:23:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5441648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the December 'Fete des Mousquetaries' competition themed 'Frozen'. It begins with too much drinking and it ends with a sneeze. Set in season 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking Dreams

Cold. And crunchy. Two things that Athos despised with all of his heart, especially when they happened to work in perfect tandem to make his head feel like an inflated pig bladder filled with sloshy, chunky soup.

Or maybe that was just the aftereffects of the amount of wine they had consumed the previous night.

Snow scrunched under his boots as he made his way slowly towards the armory, the monotonous screech-screech sound setting his teeth on edge at every step. Guard duty meant extra precautions and a couple of muskets would not be amiss.

By his side, Porthos and D'Artagnan looked about as bad as he felt, long shadows underneath their eyes and permanent frowns upon their faces. The sun was barely up, but what little light it provided, it was proving to be highly offensive.

“Please remind me,” D'Artagnan whispered, the soft sound of his voice apparently hurtful even to his own ears. “Why did we drink so much last night?”

“Personally,” Athos whispered back, “I blame Jesus.”

Porthos chuckled. “Best not let Aramis hear ya saying rubbish like that,” he warned lightly. “He takes the Holy season very seriously. Besides, wha's _Réveillon de Noel_ without a few drinks with yer family?”

“Speaking of him,” Athos said, looking around. God, the mess they had left behind in the wake of last night's celebrations. Serge would not be happy. “We're expected at the palace to escort His Majesty to _Noel_ mass...he delays any longer, and we'll be late.”

“He wasn't in his quarters,” Porthos informed. “Went by to fetch'im myself, but he was already gone. Bit of a surprise, that was, given that last night he was so in his cups that we had to stop'im from climbing to the bloody roof and showin’ us how he could fly like a damn bird,” he added with a chuckle.

Athos frowned at the memory. It has hard to remember the last time he had seen Aramis lose himself so completely in his drink. Most of the times, the marksman drank with moderation; enough to get tipsy but not enough to lose his grip on reality. Aramis knew too well what lay beyond reality for him and he would simply not risk it.

There was, of course, a valid reason for such precaution. Athos remembered all too well the last time Aramis had drunk himself into a senseless state. And the time after that. And then, of course, there was that one time that had ended in blood. Porthos, as it was, still carried the mark from that...incident.

The first time they realized Aramis'...peculiar reaction to over-indulgence of wine, they had been out celebrating the end of particularly trying mission in Le Havre. The missive had been delivered, despite the rather theatrical and badly planned ambush on the road --truly, who blows up a tree to block a road and does not plan for a whole forest on fire?-- and none of them had suffered any injury beyond the odd couple of bruises and Porthos' split lip. So they had drank. A lot.

Athos and Porthos had been awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of someone banging on the door of the room they had rented at the Inn, hard enough to shake the thin walls. In the short time it took them to answer the door, both had already noticed the conspicuous emptiness of the third cot in the room and knew for a certain that the desperate banging was somehow related to their missing companion.

That their initial thought had been somewhere along the lines of ' _how on earth did he managed to find a married woman in such a short time and marinated in wine as he was'_ , was understandable. That Athos had been making plans to murder Aramis, or quite possibly turn him into an eunuch, if he was about to face yet another angry and bloodthirsty husband, was understandable.

What neither could really understand was why there was an old woman at their door, yelling that someone had seen a naked man making his way out of the village and in the direction of the woods and if they, as Musketeers, could handle the matter before some poor, pious woman lost her virtue through her eyeballs.

As it turned out, Aramis wasn't actually naked, just in the same small clothes he had gone to bed in a few hours before. And he was prone to walk in his sleep when he abused the wine. 

It seemed to be worse, or at least more frequent, in the frozen weather, whether that was because the cold and snow brought him bad memories and he drank more, or just because the memories were there all along and just happened to cause more havoc in that particular weather. 

To say that Aramis was asleep during those episodes was truly to cast a veil of innocence and over-simplifying the matter. Once he took to his feet in his sleep, it was nearly impossible to cut the spell and wake Aramis. Like a man possessed by an external, vicious force, it had taken Athos and Porthos a few painful tries to realize that other than bring Aramis back to his senses by force, it worked best to simply stand guard and patiently wait for Aramis to wake on his own. Because even in his sleep, the man could be quite violent. And accurate. And oddly attached to knives.

The same sort of thoughts must have been coursing through Porthos' mind, because as Athos looked at him with alarm in his eyes, the taller man' smile quickly dissolved into a scowl and he had nothing else to say but an anxious, “We need to find'im!”

D'Artagnan stared at them, not quite following the long and detailed discussion that the two men seemed to silently have had in the duration of two blinks of an eye. “I don't...Why?”

“Aramis has a...condition,” Athos told, for the lack of a better explanation. “If we find him, whatever you do, do not go near him,” he added, his mind already on the search. Surely he was still inside the garrison, otherwise the men guarding the gate would have said something?

“Or look like yer a threat to'im,” Porthos added.

“Or talk too loud,” Athos remembered. “Also, mind where you place your hands. No fists, no reaching for your sword.”

“Why would I--?”

“And no matter wha',” Porthos added, looking deadly serious. “Do not try to wake’im.”

D'Artagnan nodded slowly, taking a careful step away from both of them. It was clear to see in his face that he thought them to be insane. Or quite possibly still drunk.

Athos could not disagree from the young man's assessment. They were also, incidentally, profoundly right.

“So,” D’Artagnan voiced as soon as he managed to get pass the overflow of information. “What exactly is this ‘ _condition_ ’ he suffers from?”

~§~

They found him in the armory. Crouching in one corner, dressed in his bed clothes, fast puffs of breath fogging the air in front of him. There was a dagger in his right hand, his _main gauche_ in the left and he was staring right at them. Unblinking.

“His eyes are opened,” D'Artagnan whispered from where he stood, partially hidden by Porthos' bulk. “Shouldn't they be closed if he was truly asleep?”

Athos gave him a look that, at once, reminded him of his father and himself being all of four years old. Apparently, it had been wrong of him to assume that someone’s eyes should be close just because they were _asleep_.

“Aramis, _mon ami_ , do you know who we are?” Athos called out quietly, as if talking to a child.

Aramis blinked and lowered his head, and right there and then, D'Artagnan was certain that Athos and Porthos had been having a laugh at his expense with all of their talk about Aramis and his walking and fighting while asleep. 

He had seen people talking, turning and kicking in their sleep. In fact, D'Artagnan was absolutely sure he had done so himself on a number of occasions. But walking long distances, holding weapons, _using_ them? Truly, who had ever heard of sleeping _and_ doing anything remotely coordinated at the same time? It was nothing but a jest, a prank on the new guy.

He was so certain, in fact, that he ignored all of their earlier advice and took a step forward, unsheathing his sword as he went. Nothing would unmask their play faster than Aramis trying to defend himself while still pretending to be asleep.

“D'Artagnan, no!”

“Get back!”

No yelling, Athos and Porthos had warned. However, the genuine concern in their voices gave him pause. Also, he had not expected Aramis to attack him quite so viciously.

“Aramis... wha--?”

There was no room for words as D'Artagnan hurried to fend off the lethally skilled blows raining down on him. The fact that Aramis was making him scramble for defense using nothing but two short blades was almost as surprising as the realization that his friend was truly aiming to kill him.

“Can't slip,” Aramis hissed. “Frozen heart...can't lose my feet...die...can't--”

“Aramis,” the younger man pleaded. Aramis words made as much sense as his actions, but if he was talking, perhaps he was also listening. He had to try. “Aramis, it's me...you know me!”

For half a second, the young Musketeer was sure that he had managed to get through. Aramis head listed to the side, sweat changing direction on his face as he lowered his hands. “They're coming...I can’t protect...can't you hear them? You must hear them!” Aramis asked instead, giving no indication that he had either heard or understood the words being shouted at him. His eyes were red rimmed and wide, focused on something that, apparently, only he could see. “I'm slipping! Give me back my peace!”

D'Artagnan had sparred with the older Musketeer before. A number of times, in fact. Enough to know that, while Aramis had a reputation for being the best with firearms, he was also quite prone with his sword. And fast. Also, he fought almost as dirty as Porthos.

Which was all fine and entertaining in a fight for sport or training. This was neither.

It was a frightening sight. There was no trace in his friend's eyes of the warmth and brotherly love D'Artagnan had grown accustomed to find there. In its place, there was only fear and determination. Determination to make his heart stop beating.

“Aramis, please!” D'Artagnan tried again. “Stop this nonsense!”

Even with all of his focus on Aramis, D'Artagnan could catch glimpses of Athos and Porthos in the sidelines. It was easy to see that they were both looking for a way to stop that madness, to come between the two fighters before someone was seriously injured.

A room, filled with weapons of all sorts and Aramis moving faster than D'Artagnan had ever seen him, was not conducive to extreme optimism in such regards.

Devoid of options, Porthos and Athos resorted to drawing their own swords and joining the fight, giving Aramis more than one target and hopefully tire him enough to disarm him.

“I do apologize for this, brother,” Athos voiced, even though it was clear that their words held no meaning for Aramis at the moment.

In a decision that was far too rational and brilliant to be taken by someone who wasn't aware of his actions, Aramis quickly exchanged his two small blades for a spear.

Athos swore under his breath.

“Oy!” Porthos let out with a curse of his own. “Not the damn spear again. I hate that bloody thing...nearly lost m'eye last time...”

D'Artagnan spared him a look, surprised at the revelation. Porthos' scar over his left eye was impossible to miss, giving him a pirate-y look that went all too well with the golden ring in his left ear. Most would have assumed that it had resulted from one of the many skirmishes Porthos' had been a part of in his time as a soldier, or maybe even before. That Aramis was the one responsible for it was not something that had ever crossed D'Artagnan's mind.

Although, he could understand now why Porthos disliked the idea of Aramis and a spear. The way Aramis responded to the larger threat filled D'Artagnan with awe and sadness. Completely unaware that he was using his skills against his own friends and companions, Aramis moved with such grace and accuracy that the spear in his hands seemed to be in more than one place at once. D’Artagnan was, in fact, so distracted by his friend's fighting skill that he nearly missed the thrust that was aimed at his throat.

Moving on pure instinct, D'Artagnan brought his sword up, pushing the spear head up and to the side. The sharp sting of metal cutting through his left cheek was barely enough to make the young man react, but the unfamiliar notion that Aramis had actually wounded him and had taken no notice, was enough to make D'Artagnan gasp in surprise and lose his balance.

Athos and Porthos moved as one to protect him, their blades crossing inches in front of D'Artagnan's face as Aramis moved in for the kill. It was, the young Gascon determined, a most odd way to start Noel's day.

“Too many, there's too many...” Aramis voiced, his face red with exertion as he pushed his spear against the combined force of his two brothers. “Don’t leave me! I can’t--”

With all three of them on one side, it was too easy for Aramis to make a run for the door, bolting it shut in his escape.

“Aramis, no! C'me back here!”

~§~

Porthos was furious. Looking at the grim expression adorning his face, that would be easy enough to ascertain. The fact that he was currently pacing back and forth across the yard and sending murderous looks to any who dared cross his path, was just decoration on top of a brightly colorful hat. Just as frightening and equally pointless.

It was hard to determine which was more aggravating: the fact that it had taken almost an hour for someone to hear their calls and come to release them from the locked armory or the fact that the guards at the gate hadn't found it one bit suspicious that Aramis was making his exit from the garrison dressed in a long chemise, small clothes and no boots. In the winter. With ten inches of snow covering the streets of Paris.

By the time they had been released to search for him, it was impossible to discern which footprints were Aramis' and which belonged to the dozens of people and animals ambling about. Somewhere in Paris, on Noel's morning, Aramis was lost and alone, and short of wandering aimlessly, there was not a damn thing Porthos could do about it. So, he paced.

They had tried the wandering aimlessly bit first. Each picking a direction, asking everyone they met in the street if they had come across a man of dark hair and eyes, barefooted and poorly dressed for the cold. Unfortunately, that description matched about half of the vagrants and beggars of Paris, if not all of them.

Eventually, they were forced to return to the garrison and wait for news.

Treville had not been pleased. For one, they had failed to report at the palace to escort the King and Queen to Notre Dame, forcing him to make other arrangements at the last second. Also, it would seem that they had never actually gotten around to telling him of Aramis' condition.

In the end, it was Aramis who found them.

“May God be with you,” the priest saluted as he walked into the garrison, brown cassock adorned with nothing else but a small wooden cross hanging from his neck by a string. ”I'm looking for someone familiar with a man named Aramis.”

The name was, of course, all it took for the cleric to have all of Porthos’ unwavering attention. Wasting no time with pleasantries and small talk, Porthos asked the one question that had been eating his insides for hours now. “Where?”

~§~

There was a Nativity scene depicted beside the altar, the figures made of straw, carved wood and ragged clothing. It was simple and unpretentious, but it still held a quiet and noble bearing befitting of what it invoked. It was, after all, the day when all celebrated the birth of one little baby.

Aramis was sound asleep, his body covered with a thin blanket, arms wrapped around himself and his face inches from the small figure intended to represent that very same baby. He looked utterly at peace.

Athos sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his face. He should have realized sooner.

Aramis only suffered his sleep wandering bouts when he drank heavily, but he only drank heavily when he had a reason for it. At first, Athos had just assumed that his friend's nonsensical verbosity at the armory had been related to Savoy, because Lord knew that most of the marksman's nightmares usually were about that monstrosity.

This however...this had nothing to do with the massacre. He had been right at his first guess. This was all Jesus’ fault.

Well, in all fairness, the fault laid with Mankind, who had decided to celebrate one particular baby's birth with such aplomb and ceremony.

And every other year, it would be a harmless enough day, even when Aramis was obnoxious about them accompanying him to attend mass at an hour that was best spent drinking wine.

This year however…this year, Aramis was a father.

The day Aramis' son had been born, he had been two thousand miles away, escorting Rochefort back to Paris. He hadn't been allowed to celebrate, he hadn't even been aware of the fact until much later, when they’d arrived to the capital to the sound of tolling bells. And he hadn't said a word.

But Athos should have realized. Of the three of them, he was the only one who could, because he was the only one who knew.

In the wasteland of silence and things left unsaid of late, Aramis had escaped the armory and had sought refuge in the two things he held most dearly to his heart: God and his son. On this particular day, they just happened to be the one and the same.

“How long has he been like so?” Athos asked the priest who had led them there. “How did you know where to find us?”

The priest smiled. “Do you see those two pews, right at the front?” he asked, pointing at the wooden, long benches. They weren't the most exquisite pews Athos had ever gazed upon, but they were sturdy and well made. “He helped us make those, three years back. Bought the wood and nails from his pocket and cut it himself. There, on the statue of Holy Mary, right side of the altar? The golden heart pendant hanging from Her hands? That was a gift from your friend, a token he said to have been given to him but for which he had no need,” the priest went on, his voice smooth and quiet, in deference either to the higher power that supposedly called the church His home, or the sleeping Musketeer near the altar. “I could go on, but I believe it suffices to say that Aramis is well known to this house and someone I pride myself to call a friend.”

Porthos, listening quietly by their side, had an expression on his face that could only be called of intense pride. And not even one hint of surprise. “Thank you,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “Fer fetching us. We were worried sick 'bout'im.”

“He wasn't himself when he arrived,” the priest confided, his brow creased in worry at the memory. “Looked half frozen to death too. By the time I returned with some blankets and a hot soup, he was like that. Sound asleep. I had no heart to wake him.”

“We'll take care of him now,” D'Artagnan assured with a smile, wincing slightly as it pulled on his cut.

Porthos nodded his agreement, wordlessly undoing the buttons of his doublet. “Best we wake'im now, yeah?”

“I'm awake,” Aramis' voice echoed gently through the empty church. “Just too embarrassed to admit it, I think.”

“And what, pray tell, are you embarrassed about?” Athos asked, making his way to join the others by Aramis' side.

“Well, for one,” the marksman said, a faint redness creasing his otherwise pale cheeks, “I seem to be cuddling a straw baby Jesus.”

“I've caught you cuddin' with a lot worse,” Porthos admitted, adding a very theatrical body-shudder at the memory. “And wearin' less,” he added.

Aramis groaned, trying to hide his face under the blanket. The blanket was only so big and the action caused it to uncover his feet. 

Athos cursed under his breath, sending an apologetic look in the priest’s direction. Walking around the snow covered city had done Aramis no favors.

“We need to clean those,” Athos remarked, wincing when he caught sight of blood amongst the dirt. “And get you back to the garrison. You'll be lucky if this doesn't land you on your back with the shivers.”

As if to make his point valid, Aramis let out a thundering sneeze, looking murderously at Athos like it was all his fault for suggesting it.

“Com'ere ya icy lump,” Porthos intervened, pushing the thin blanket aside and replacing it with his doublet. It must have still carried his body heat, because Aramis actually sighed as he slipped into its warmth. “I’m too pretty to be ya mother, ya know?”

Aramis smiled, ducking his head inside the warm clothing. “It happened again, did it not?” he whispered after a breath, not daring to meet anyone's eye.

“Aramis...”

It was an old argument amongst them. Aramis blamed himself for what he did in his sleep the same way he took responsibility for what happened when he was awake, acting like he had any saying on what took place when he was absent of his senses.

“Did I hurt anyone?” he asked, his voice suddenly betraying his discomfort and unease. When he looked up and his eyes landed without fail on D'Artagnan's slashed cheek, he simply stopped breathing. “Oh, God!”

“Aramis, 'tis nothing but a scratch,” the Gascon assured him. “Look, not even one stitch.”

“I did that,” Aramis voiced, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself rather than stating a fact. “D'Artagnan, I would never...I beg your forgi--”

“The fault was mine,” D'Artagnan hurried to say before the older man could go any further. “I was foolish and did not believe Athos and Porthos' warnings...and as a result of that, you were hurt,” he added, his eyes suddenly bright. “It is I who should beg your forgiveness, not you.”

Aramis smiled, his hand searching for the back of D'Artagnan's neck and pulling his head to meet his. They stood like that for a moment, two brothers touching foreheads, sharing their burdens and love.

“If we're all quite done with the begging part,” Athos interrupted, his voice gentle even if his words were not. “One of us needs to find a cart to take him back.”

That got Aramis' attention quite efficiently. “What for?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused.

Athos gave him a pointed look before turning his eyes ever so slightly to the mess at the bottom of Aramis' feet. “You're not walking on _those_ and I doubt you'll allow us to carry you that far,” he explained. The indignant huff that escaped Aramis' mouth at the suggestion of being carried was proof enough that he was completely right in his assessment. “So, cart it is?”

~§~

Athos had been right about the cart. And the shivers. But as the man sat patiently by his side, changing cold cloths from his forehead as they warmed under the touch of his fever, Aramis couldn't find it in himself to hate him for having predicted such a turn of events. It was, after all, the season of love and joy. The time to celebrate the birth of God's gift to Humanity, His son.

The marksman sighed as he remembered waking up in that church, facing a straw figure with a wooden face. It wasn't enough that he struggled for every waking hour not to denounce himself as the Dauphin's father, now he was also forced to worry about what he did in his sleep. Perhaps it was safer for everyone is he just-

“I believe I told you to sleep,” Athos reminded him gently.

Aramis opened his eyes a slit, staring at his friend. “I _was_ asleep,” he lied.

“I could _hear_ you thinking,” the older man offered, a raised eyebrow daring him to deny it. “Granted, it is hard to hear anything else over the sound of Porthos snoring, but still...”

Aramis smiled, raising his head just enough to see Porthos slumped beside the lit hearth, deep in his sleep. Using the big man’ shoulder as a pillow, D'Artagnan was also resting, thankfully being less sonorous in his slumber.

“I owe you an apology,” Athos suddenly said, the words sounding rehearsed in his lips, like he had told them many times before, in the privacy of his mind. “I should have taken notice of your troubles and what this season might have remin-”

“Athos--”

“No, please, allow me to finish,” the swordsman insisted. “We sworn to stand for each other in all matters, of honor, of duty and of heart,” Athos said, his voice oddly solemn in the silent night. “In this particular issue, as the only one who could honor that oath, I found myself being remiss in my duties as a friend...and as a brother.”

Athos skin was cold under his fingers as Aramis closed his fingers over the other man's hand. His reputation as having a silver tongue failed him, for Aramis had no words to express his gratitude and forgiveness for whatever slight Athos thought he had caused him.

“I have more than enough of my family around me,” Aramis finally whispered, his eyes falling across the two sleeping men and the one trapped by his grasp. “The rest, the ones I cannot call my own, I shall save for my walking dreams.”

Athos nodded, placing his free hand over the two they shared. “Just...abstain from doing it in snow, in the future, yes?”

Aramis chuckled, his mirth cut short by a bout of cough. “Duly noted,” he whispered after a while. His eyes were growing too tired to keep open, the events of the previous night and the fever finally overtaking him. “My brother.”

“ _Feliz Navidad_ , Aramis,” Athos added with a smirk, settling back on his chair to watch over as his friend slept.

After all, one could never tell when Aramis might wander off after he closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I have my friend **Jackfan2** to thank, both for the wonderful idea that germinated this story, but also for checking it for mistakes and otherwise nasty things. This one if for you, because really, it wouldn't've happened otherwise ;)


End file.
